


Steady in the Disquiet

by lodgedinmythoughts



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Christmas, Christmas Tree, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Gift Giving, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Pre-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 01:07:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17132144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lodgedinmythoughts/pseuds/lodgedinmythoughts
Summary: A pair of unconnected Christmas one shots.1) The reader and Steve spend a quiet Christmas Eve night by the fire; and though they’ve lost much, they still have each other. Then the guilt-ridden reader asks something impossible of him, knowing it could change everything. Pretty angsty.2) The reader and Steve spend a relaxing December evening together. Established relationship. Fluffier.





	1. I'll be Home for Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader and Steve spend a quiet Christmas Eve night by the fire; and though they've lost much, they still have each other. Then the guilt-ridden reader asks something impossible of him, knowing it could change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listened to Spotify's Christmas Peaceful Piano playlist while writing, which is a serious mood and basically helped form the tone of this fic. Happy holidays to all. ❤️💚

_She sits in a dream, or in a memory_  
_while old conversations play in her ears_  
_Sometimes the minutes feel longer than hours_  
_Some days feel long as years_  
_She’s just glad she gets to be around_  
_to see another spring come to this town_  


-Regina Spektor, ["New Year"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yuhTqBLMtvo)

. . .

“Violet for Vision…scarlet for Sam, white for Wanda…fuchsia for Fury, honeydew for Hill…tangerine for T’Challa, silver for Strange…teal for Tony. The last one.” Calmly, you survey your work.

It’s silent behind you where Steve sits with an elbow on the arm of the plush chair and a curled fist to his mouth, and he would look in repose if not for the subtle sag of his shoulders and the distant look in his eyes. Surely he notices there’s one ornament missing, but he says nothing.

You’ve just placed the last of the ornaments on the tree—a last-minute amendment, of sorts. It’s now over half a year since the universe was upended and life as you knew it was irreversibly changed. None who was left and took up residence at the compound—you, Steve, Thor, Natasha and Bruce—was in any particular mood to celebrate the holidays. Not when anyone was sure if holidays were even still a thing, when half the universe had been obliterated and the world quickly descended into chaos.

But then, on a dreary December morning, you found yourself rising from bed not with a deep weariness in your bones as had become the norm, but with a restlessness which showed no signs of letting up. So on impulse, as he was the only one you could find out and about around the compound, you asked Thor to tag along to your destination, figuring you could use his strength for your next task. And though he found the Midgardian tradition peculiar, he came along, and a couple of hours later, the two of you returned to the compound with a freshly cut tree in tow.

Setting it up in the library together, you soon got to decorating, the others appearing one by one, curious as to what was taking place. Natasha came in with a steaming cup of coffee, showing the barest hint of a smile before setting the mug down on a table and sidling up to the tree to help. Then in came Bruce, still in his pajamas as he watched from the side until Natasha beckoned him over. Together, you spent the late morning putting up the lights, the tinsel and the ornaments. Save for one person.

Steve showed up last and instead of entering the room, he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, observing without a word. You could feel him across the room, your senses so finely attuned to his presence. You asked if he wanted to join, but he simply shook his head and uttered, “I’m ok,” expression letting you know he was perfectly content to watch.

When all was done, Natasha announced she would find the other decorations for the rest of the compound, appearing all of a sudden warmed up to the idea of partaking in something comfortable, familiar. The others eventually went their own way as well, filtering out the door past Steve, who made no move to leave.

It was then you turned to look at him, smiling shyly, uncertainty marking your features. He remained taciturn, but the soft smile he gave in return as though he couldn’t help it had your heart fluttering, feeling a lightness it didn’t feel often enough.

Now, there’s a new number of ornaments hanging about the branches in addition to the gold ones originally placed. Eight so far, to be exact, all gleaming in different colors and larger than the gold ones.

Eight ornaments to represent eight people.

Though the gesture may seem morbid to some, serving only as a reminder of what was lost, the ornaments are a symbol for Steve—and a calling, a manifestation of something buried tight underneath the grief, past the safety net of his ribcage where his blood pumps to the beat of that unique brand of unwavering determination.

He’ll get them back, all of them, and he swears like he’s never done before that if doing so’s the last thing he ever does on this earth—well, he thinks, that’ll be good enough for him.

He says none of this, but you see it in his eyes. You see it in the tight line of his mouth whenever he gives up any sort of pretense of having an appetite and leans back in his chair, fork held loosely in his right hand.

You’ve never been so good with words, you think, but after everything that’s happened, you’ve both found there’s lesser need for careful, timid gestures in this unspoken thing you’ve got going on between you. Where before there were stolen, longing glances shrouded with an odd tension to the air, now there are unabashed touches of comfort. A hand on an arm here, a head laid on a shoulder there, shoulders or thighs touching as you sit beside each other, neither showing any hint of moving away.

As things are now, there are still those looks of longing and there remains in the air that oddness you can’t name, but if you had to speak for the both of you, you think you might say you’re on the cusp of something, you and him. Knowing so fills you with a pure, bubbling, quiet happiness you weren’t sure you’d be capable of feeling again. It fills you with hope.

And try though you might to quell those uplifting emotions, now so foreign to you, they bloom without your consent to take root deep in your heart, in a sealed little pocket you didn’t know existed, one that can’t be shaken so easily, you find.

And yet, in spite of those emotions, you’re filled with such guilt, such dread…

And despair.

Guilt because you’re still reeling from everyone you’ve lost, same as him, disoriented and aimless with utterly no clue how to wade through the aftermath of it all, and the ever blossoming feelings you have for this strong, weathered man seem misplaced, almost, as though you have no right to know earthly happiness when the others no longer have the chance to.

Dread because in the wake of everything, you know now more than ever that nothing can last forever. Not in the way you know forever to be.

And despair because the unthinkable has happened and you’ve lost so much, and yet…you know—you _know_ —it’s losing the man with you now that you fear the most.

And you know Steve. You know he’d do anything to get them back, the world back, to right the wrongs against the universe. The _universe_.

Even if it ends up costing him his life.

You treasure him for his brave heart, but you worry even he won’t be able to take on such a herculean task. It’s incomprehensible, insurmountable. Impossible. And you hate with every fiber of your being that it is.

But more than anything, you wish you hadn’t fallen in love with Steve Rogers. Because somewhere deep, deep inside, you know you may have lost him before you ever had him.

This, in turn, wracks you with the horrible added guilt of praying against all odds that he not see any future endeavor through, however ill-hatched it may be at the present moment. You hope for this at the expense of his conscience, of your fallen friends and allies, of every lost soul in the universe, all so you can keep him there with you, safe and sound. And you hate yourself for it. And whether it’s out of fear or shortsightedness or something else, you refuse to let yourself think for too long on what could happen next, for your sanity’s sake.

So in those moments when he can’t be bothered to eat, you simply take his other hand where it sits limply on the table and rest your head on one hand, as though so wearied you can’t even expend the energy to sit up straight, and hope it’s enough for the time being.

Then he’ll come out of his trance, fix you with that melancholic look of concern, the one with the dip between his brows and his mouth set in a frown, and say your name with a trace of guilt in his voice and tell you _oh, don’t—_ and you know he means for you not to stop eating on his account, never on his account.

But the food often proves to be tasteless anyway and you can’t seem to swallow any of it down, not when the incurable pain you see in his eyes hits you like a swift punch to the gut, only for the image to remain seared in your brain, a permanent specter in the lockbox of your thoughts.

And for all his tendencies to withdraw, he somehow knows just how to bring you back down to earth when you do the same. He brings you food when he knows you haven’t eaten, asks you to join him on walks where you’re able to remember what the crisp air tastes like, changes the subject to something lighter when you’ve had that faraway look in your eyes for too long.

He notices you. Takes care of you. Not out of duty, but of something stronger.

And tonight, as the soft, soothing piano sounds of holiday music filter from the speakers and the fire crackles gently with its emanating warmth, you think you’ll allow yourself a tiny crumb of happiness on this cold Christmas Eve night, if you can manage it.

You’re still in front of the tree when Steve speaks.

“Looks good,” he says, letting out a small cough to rid himself of his hoarse voice. Blinking himself back to life, sitting up straighter. “It might be good to have a little Christmas cheer around here.”

“You don’t think it’s…dark?”

He doesn’t mistake your meaning. “I think they’d be glad to know you’re…honoring them in this way.”

His head shakes involuntarily and he looks down, and you know he detests the word that’s just fallen from his lips. Honor. Like they’re gone, never to return, and he’s accepted it.

You wish you could say something comforting, something to take away his pain, a “We’ll get them back,” perhaps, but you don’t have it in you to tell yourself potential falsities of such a size, much less tell him that. You wish you could be strong for him like he’s always been, or tried to be, for himself, for the team, for you.

Instead, you tell him, “I lied.”

That makes him look up at you.

“That wasn’t the last one. The ornaments, I mean. There’s another one.” With that, you reach into a gift bag on an end table near the tree and pull out a glittering black ornament. You turn to Steve, holding the small offering like something precious. “Black for Bucky.”

What you see in Steve’s answering expression is a combination of controlled surprise, if his small but noticeable intake of breath is anything to go by, and what you think might be something like appreciation. His gaze turns tender as he looks at you. You gesture mildly with the ornament and he has no trouble catching your meaning.

Rising steadily from his chair, he makes his way over to you. Then his eyes slide down from your own to the ornament in your hand and, fingers brushing your palm, he takes it, in equal measure, with care and resolve. Directing his attention to the tall tree, he silently scouts out a suitable opening and makes no spectacle out of it as he hangs the ornament.

“Saved that for me, huh?” he murmurs.

You’re able to detect a bit of teasing humor in his voice, however subdued. You’ve missed the sound terribly. “Only seemed right.”

It’s silent for a while, but not for lack of anything to say. The music continues in the background, seconds tick by and you realize you must’ve been lost in thought because the two heavy palms on your shoulders take you by surprise. You turn your head to find him gone from your side, now over your shoulder instead, just a hair’s breadth away, his heat emanating onto your back.

His hands, steady and strong, rest close to your neck. His touch is like a brand, enough to send your heart racing. He moves his hands in a way so that it’s a massage, thumbs pressing into your shoulder blades and fingers rubbing firmly along your clothed skin. It’s brief, but it’s a tiny glimpse of what those hands might be capable of under different circumstances.

He gently fingers your hair so that none of it obscures your face. The other hand trails down your arm, so intent in its path, never letting up contact so that the heat of his hand is permanently embedded in your skin.

His hand takes refuge in your own when he reaches it. Yours moves automatically and together, your fingers entwine. He can’t see all of you yet, but you see, you _feel_ how he stands just over your shoulder, staring at you in wonder.

“Dance with me.”

How could you not?

You let him maneuver you to face him, trusting him wholly, and the unmitigated focus in his eyes, directed entirely toward you, has your stomach twisted in knots.

He takes you in his arms, one hand firmly on your back and the other around yours as you sway to the music. It’s awkward at first, but for the first time since you can remember, a laugh bubbles up from somewhere in your throat, and you know there’s no one else you’d rather be awkward with.

Your laugh has him smiling, and those smiles are so rare nowadays that the stark reminder of his beauty, of your fortune for knowing him, takes your breath away.

As he holds you close, his gaze flickers down to your mouth and your name falls from his lips in a soft exhale. You close your eyes. It’s too much. You bury your face in his sweater. It smells like him. Like home.

His head rests alongside yours and you can feel him inhale before he lets out a sigh against your hair. “I didn’t think I would ever be here.”

 _Where’s here?_ , you want to ask.

You stay quiet.

“If you hadn’t brought that tree home…” His arm around you tightens.

Home. Because this is home, yours and his, and when he says the word like he means it, like he belongs, you’re powerless to keep your heart from breaking just a little.

“Who knows what we’d be doing right now?” he mutters.

You search for something to say and only end up speaking in platitudes. “I’m…glad I could help bring a little…cheer around here.” You don’t like how the word tastes on your tongue.

“We wouldn’t be dancing,” he says, voice so close to your ear. “I wouldn’t be having my first dance with you. And…just the fact that you even decided to do what you did with the ornaments…” He pulls back so he can look at you, shaking his head, solemn look in place. “I don’t know what I’d do if you were…if I didn’t…”

You wait patiently for him to continue. When he gathers his words, it’s with quiet but steely resolve. “There’re still things worth fighting for.”

You consider his words, supposing you understand what he means, at least broadly so. “We haven’t lost everyone,” you say.

“And I intend to keep it that way.” His gaze locks pointedly with yours, and he’s so unflinching in his speech and manner that you somehow know, can see so clearly now just to what—or whom—he refers.

Your breath is stolen from your lungs. You’ve danced around each other for who knows how long, but tonight seems to be a night for declarations.

So after his, you tighten your fingers around his sweater in an effort to drum up the courage to make yours before it slips away again. But first, you’ll ease into it.

You can’t look at him so you lean into him again. “Hey, Steve?”

“Hm?” You can feel the rich timbre of his voice deep in his chest.

“Can you…can you just tell me everything’ll be ok? Even if it won’t? I just—” _I just need to_ hear _it._

It’s silent for a good five seconds. You feel his throat move as he gulps. Finally, he says carefully, gently, “I wish I could promise you that.”

Your eyes screw shut as if to keep any tears at bay, though you half-expected his reply. “Steve?” you try again, voice meek.

“What is it?” He sounds concerned.

This is it. This could change everything, could change his opinion of you, but you’ll hate yourself forever if push comes to shove and you never get the chance again, having already lost him for good. “I know…. I hate this. Everything. So much.” You pick at imaginary bits of lint on his sweater. “Can I…can I ask something of you?”

You practically feel his brows knit together in confusion. “What is it?”

You swallow thickly. “I know you, Steve. And I know there’s still some fight left in you. But I—can I just…. Don’t do it. Please. Whatever you’re thinking, _please_ —don’t do it.”

There’s no room for mincing words here, letting things go unsaid. Not after everything that’s happened, not when you don’t know if there’ll even be a next time for anything.

You’ve stopped swaying to the music long since, and you’re unsure of when you moved so that both your arms are clutching his waist, much like his are hugging yours. In front of you, Steve is completely still. After a painful silence, your name comes out his mouth in a rough voice and you quickly cut in.

“Steve, just—I know what you’re gonna say. I know I’m being selfish, I know I have no right to ask.” Where before you could hardly get the words out, now you’re unable to stop. “You know how you said there are still things worth fighting for? Well, you’re it for me, Steve, or you’re one of them, you’re the most—I just, I can’t, Steve. I’m not gonna lose you, too.”

At least in the privacy of your thoughts, only you were privy to those selfish wishes. By saying them out loud, you feel the crushing weight of betrayal all too keenly. Betrayal on your behalf to your friends. And you fear Steve will hate you for it.

“I won’t be able to come back from it. If I lose you…” You feel your throat quickly constricting and you burrow yourself deeper in his sweater, unable both to look at him and to let him see you.

You’re a coward. Maybe he’ll say that. But his hands remain around your waist and you dare to allow yourself to feel a tiny sliver of hope.

Even after what feels like minutes, he still hasn’t said anything, so you take your chances and barrel on. “You said we don’t trade lives. Remember? When Vision wanted to sacrifice himself?”

“Is that what you think I’m gonna do? Sacrifice myself?” His response is sudden, catching you off guard.

You draw back to look at him and find his mouth set in a tight line—and a solitary tear tracking silently down his cheek. Heart aching at the sight, you wipe it away. “I don’t know what you’re gonna do, Steve. But am I wrong? Have you not been thinking up every possible scheme to kill Thanos and get everyone back?”

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head, dejected. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

“But you’re not gonna let it end like this.”

“And that's wrong?” There’s a challenge in his fierce tone.

“No—God, no, I’m—don’t you get it, Steve? I _know_ now that this fight isn’t over. But you, Steve, you’re…you may not trade other people’s lives, but if it comes down to it, we all know you’d trade yours for theirs.”

His face is still a stern mask and he looks like he’s about to break any second.

“You said there’re things worth fighting for? Me? Well, I’m asking you, Steve, to fight for me like I’ll fight for you, but fight to _stay alive_. I won’t let your death be the only option.”

You’re the one with all the resolve now. The two of you merely stand there nary an inch apart, facing down the other in a contest of wills. You’ve said it all now and you’re certain he’ll resent you for it, which is why it takes you by surprise when his hand reaches up to cup your cheek, his face crumpled in agonizing indecision.

Eyes rimmed with red search yours. “I’m gonna fight for you. For us. All of us. I don’t know what’s going to happen. But you’re right about me. I’m not gonna let it end like this.”

There’s nothing you can say back. Instead, his words are left floating in the air as the two of you stand there in the dim lighting of the library while the serene sounds of Christmas music and a warm crackling fire play in the background. You stand there knowing you’re both only human, certain of nothing at all but the other’s presence right then, right there.

Tonight, it’ll have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mainly wrote this because I'm drowning in anxiety over what'll happen to Steve in Endgame. This was one of the only ways I could offer myself some minimal comfort.
> 
> I also just want to clarify that the ornaments are for their teammates/allies that they have close ties with and/or know for sure are missing. So the Guardians aren't included, nor is Peter Parker since no one from Earth but Tony and Dr. Strange knew he was out in space and those two obviously can't notify anyone. But I decided to include Strange since Bruce was with him at the start of IW, and I figure he'd tell the others about the weird sorcerer dude he and Tony fought alongside. And Fury because if the timeline for IW and Endgame corresponds with real time, they definitely would've learned of his fate at some point during the eight-ish months between then and Christmas, imo. Same for Hill and because, like Fury, she's sort of a mainstay for them.
> 
> Did I spend way too long thinking about all this? Yes, yes I did.
> 
> Edit: Dammit just remembered the Endgame trailer shows the pics of missing people on a holo screen. So uh, just pretend y’all here in the fic find out about everyone else _after_ Christmas.


	2. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader and Steve spend a relaxing December evening together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this forever ago, not sure if it'd ever see the light of day, but eh, screw it. It's the holidays!

It was one of those nights. The kind where all you wanted to do was sit by your window and gaze out at the city. But you knew you had to finish packing before you headed home for the holidays the next day. So you set to packing at a lazy pace while Christmas music floated softly throughout the room. You’d gotten used to life in the Big Apple a while back, but you couldn’t deny the appeal of re-immersing yourself in a more slowly-paced life, even if only for a little while.

The door opened and in came Steve carrying two steaming mugs of apple cider. You smiled at him as he handed you one of the mugs. “Thanks, babe.”

“Careful, still hot.”

You blew on the cider before taking a careful sip. You hummed in approval and looked to Steve, who sat on the edge of the bed next to your open suitcase. Legs stretched and crossed at the ankles, he was a momentary picture of relaxation. He seemed to be studying you with the smallest of smiles.

“What?”

He breathed out a silent laugh and shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Whatever you say, Steve.” You set your mug on a nearby table after taking another sip and went back to packing.

“Need any help?” he asked.

“I think I’m good right now, but I’ll let you know. So what movies do you wanna watch?”

He took a second to consider it, and judging by the comical look on his face, he was quite overwhelmed.

“Too many choices?”

“Way too many. I’m surprised more people aren’t sick of Christmas with all the movies there are about it. Tell you what—since we watched A Christmas Carol last night, how ’bout you choose something from this decade?”

“Doesn’t really narrow down the choices, but ok. I’ll find something. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure you hate it.” You gave him a teasing smile, which he countered with an eye roll.

There was an easy silence as you packed and occasionally asked him to fetch something from one side of the room while you went to the other. The music still played; you could see Steve’s attentiveness to it.

He held up a finger. “I hear this song everywhere.”

You chuckled. “Mariah Carey, ‘All I Want for Christmas is You.’ A classic. Love it or hate it, it’s here to stay.”

He hummed in response and eyed your nearly full suitcase. “Excited to see your family?”

You nodded. “It’s been too long.”

“I think it’s great you’ve always been close with them. I’m sure they’ll be real happy to see you.” He tapped your arm with the back of his hand, adding, “Give ’em my best.”

“Can’t say I don’t wish you could tell them in person.”

At that, he looked away.

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad, Steve,” you added gently.

“I know.”

“I was just saying. There’ll be another time, it’s ok.”

He looked at you then. “I do wanna meet them.”

You nodded. “Besides, I’m sure being stuck for several nights at your significant other’s brother’s house with her whole family after having just met them would be pretty awkward for anyone.”

He laughed at that.

“What’re you and Bucky gonna get up to over here?” you asked.

“Not sure yet. I was thinking we could visit some museums. Go around the city, show him the sights. I probably wouldn’t be the best ambassador of the 21st century for him, for obvious reasons. But we’ll figure it out.”

“You sure you and Bucky don’t wanna come with me? Promise they wouldn’t mind.”

“Wouldn’t mind a former brainwashed Hydra weapon sleeping in the same house as them?”

“Steve…”

Clutching your waist from his seated position, he said, “Hey, relax, babe. I’m joking. A little.”

You glared at him.

“I wouldn’t wanna make your family uncomfortable. And I’m sure that’s the last thing Buck would want.”

“I know. I know he needs someone with him right now. You’re just being a good friend.” You cupped Steve’s cheek before trailing your hand down to rest it on his shoulder. He didn’t respond, instead toying with his mug. “And I know you’re only looking out for them—my family, I mean. God knows they’ve been through enough.”

You were annoyed with yourself when you found you couldn’t stop the telltale sign of the prickly sensation at the back of your nose. This particular subject was one of several that always bombarded you, however quietly, with emotion.

You had to give up folding for a second to grudgingly wipe away a tiny errant tear, knowing the futility of trying to hide the action.

“Hey.” Steve’s voice was soft as he set down his mug and stood, taking your hand in his. His other hand came up to wipe at any more tears. “We’ve already talked about this. You can’t blame yourself for any of this.”

“Well, it certainly would’ve been easier on all of them if they hadn’t had to uproot their lives, wouldn’t it?”

You shook your head, more in annoyance of yourself, and wished you hadn’t uncovered that topic again. You gently pulled Steve’s hand from your cheek and got back to packing. “I don’t feel like talking about it again,” you said, not unkindly.

Steve remained as he was, watching you attempt to avoid the subject. He’d done and said all he could to make you believe you weren’t to blame for any of the troubles your family went through.

Besides Clint, you were the only one on the team to have any family, and as such, it was deemed necessary by the head honchos to move them to a more isolated location. The decision had come not too long after you’d joined the team and an unknown entity threatened your family in particular in a video message if S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t comply with their demands.

Those behind the message were soon found out to be a small group of amateurs who didn’t really have much of an idea what they were doing, but S.H.I.E.L.D., and you, were taking no chances of potential future threats to your family’s safety.

You’d all been shaken when you learned of your powers at eighteen. The implications and inner turmoil had led to constant shouting matches and breakdowns in the privacy of your room. In a dramatic move, you’d impulsively vowed to leave their lives for good, marching to your car, soon after which you suffered a bad accident due to your emotional state. You’d had to stay in the hospital for weeks, where a small part of you wished if anything was to be gained from the accident, it was that your powers had somehow been eradicated. But they hadn’t been.

In light of those events, your parents accepted your predicament and agreed on the necessity of having control over your powers. With practice, you grew more comfortable with the cards you were dealt and honed it. Years passed, life went on and you found yourself part of the Avengers. It still felt surreal sometimes, the whole bit—having powers, being on a team of superheroes, existing in a world where monsters and magic existed. The stuff of storybooks. Except real danger loomed instead of being safely confined to paper.

Your parents had initially tried to talk you into leaving the team, and after much deliberation, you were on the brink of agreement when they came back to you a few weeks later and told you they understood how much it all meant to you, and if they had to sacrifice some of their life so you could utilize your powers for good and help protect the public, they would do it because you were their daughter and they loved and supported you. You’d cried and thought to yourself that you didn’t deserve them, and what kind of daughter were you if you were willing to put your family’s lives in danger?

Your parents then moved into a cottage in a seaside town, while your brother and his family moved into a spacious farmhouse farther inland. They’d all had to change jobs, but they hadn’t had to assume new identities, as S.H.I.E.L.D. determined them to be off the radar enough now that the group of amateur criminals had been apprehended and any threat posed had been confined within that group.

You zipped up the suitcase and set it at the foot of your bed. When you turned your head to the side, you found Steve in front of the bookcase with his back to you, looking at the staggered photos on display.

Overcome with a sudden, intense appreciation, you silently made your way over to him. His head turned when your arms wrapped around his waist, your temple resting at his back. He was your rock, ever steady and strong. He turned in the embrace and wrapped his heavy arms around you. He kissed the top of your head and you closed your eyes.

“I love you, you know,” you whispered.

You could feel his smile on your hair. “I know. I love you, too.”

. . .

You woke up to a tiny rustle of movement. Groggily, you opened your eyes to find Steve unwinding his arm from around your shoulder and attempting to set up some pillows against you as a temporary replacement. The third movie in your Christmas movie marathon played on the screen. 

“What’re you doing?” you mumbled sleepily.

“Didn’t mean to wake you. I was just going to get your present.”

“My present? But we already did gifts.”

“Never said how many.”

“Steve—”

He leaned over to kiss your forehead. “Be right back.”

Immediately missing his warmth, you watched as he left the room, a wrinkle on your forehead. You felt horrible that he was giving you another gift while you’d just given him the one.

Not too long after, he reentered. In his hand was a small wrapped box that looked most peculiarly like a jewelry box.

You sat up straighter. “What is that?”

“Wouldn’t be any fun if I told you,” he said as he reclaimed his place next to you on the bed, picking up the remote to stop the movie. “Open it and find out.”

Your heart was beating wildly as you regarded the box. You tried to ignore the obvious possibility; it was far too early to even consider that, wasn’t it? Nonetheless, you couldn’t deny the secret part of you that longed, had been longing for quite some time, for it someday.

You could feel Steve’s eyes on you as you peeled away the wrapper, carefully at first. Soon enough, you were more eager to find out what was inside. After tearing the wrapping paper, you opened the lid of the dark velvet box and your lips parted.

Inside was a necklace, dark blue amethyst tucked into a small round pendant with a silver chain. It was beautiful.

You looked up at Steve, unable to form words. Earnest blue eyes looked back at you.

“It was my mom’s.”

Your expression changed enough for Steve to chuckle nervously. “I had to sell a lot of things after she died. To stay afloat, you know? But this was one thing I knew I had to keep.”

You still hadn’t said anything.

“My mom gave it to me back before the war,” he rambled. “Said she hoped I could give it to someone special one day. Wasn’t sure if I ever would, to be honest.” He gauged your reaction and took in an audible breath. “If you don’t like it—”

“Are you kidding?” you blurted out. “Steve, it…it’s too much.”

“Too much?”

“It’s beautiful.” You paused as you regarded the necklace. “But…you’re really giving this to me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked with a half-smile.

“Your mom…”

“Told me to wait until I could give it to someone special. I think I’ve done just that.”

You simply looked at him, your heart expanding exponentially to fit even more room for this man.

He nodded toward the necklace. “Turn it around. That’s how you’ll know it’s hers.”

You flipped the pendant and found an engraving.

_S.R. 1916_

Sarah Rogers.

You didn’t have to think twice before throwing your arms around his neck. You dug the side of your face into his warmth then drew back a little to press your lips against his. The two of you shared the warm embrace before breaking apart bit by bit, lips, nose and forehead. His strong, warm hand caressed your lower back.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” he said in that low, quiet voice he reserved for when it was just the two of you.

You wouldn’t have been able to keep the beatific smile from your face for all the world. “Merry Christmas.”


End file.
